


I Wear My Sunglasses At Night

by Sarah (2spooky4u)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Post season 9 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:14:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2spooky4u/pseuds/Sarah





	I Wear My Sunglasses At Night

Dean can't turn the eyes off. 

It takes Crowley aback, for sure. In all of his many decades in charge of legions of demons he has never ever seen one with Dean's problem. It's disconcerting, really, staring into the inky black depths whether the question is 'Hey, Dean, let's kill these fuckers' or 'you want some pastrami'? 

About two weeks into his new leaf that he's turned (read: destroyed) Dean buys a pair of reflective aviator shades from a CVS pharmacy in New Mexico. This demon gig comes with its benefits and its cons, but the eyes really do cause a problem when he walks into a bar. A shame really; he's already caused six dozen and three deaths to people who saw his true eyes (never could get the hang of the memory erasure thing. Nah, killing is just too satisfying to put forth the effort) and goddamn, humans are good at serving. They can't bring him a drink and a sandwich when they're lying on the floor with their souls pushing up at the ceiling that Heaven has sealed itself off to be like a sad bunch of helium balloons that have come undone from a hospital bed. 

Besides, he looks damn good in aviators. Kind of a douchebag thing to wear but oh well. 

Six months in and he grows tired of being Crowley's protégée. He's got the Mark of Cain, which makes him a ball of raw power that could probably make Crowley's own seem like a party trick. The other effect is that over a long period of time his eyes have shifted from the inky black that clings to members of endangered species during an oil spill to the ugly canvas green of soldier's gear (and interestingly enough, his old eye color). The problem is it still covers his eyeballs from the medial canthus to the lateral canthus, all a deep green that Crowley tells him is redolent of greed and lust. How clichéd, he thinks. 

It's ten months, two weeks, three days, and about a half an hour when he runs into Castiel. The angel starts with a comment about his glasses and a tangent about characters who had to constantly wear eyewear (Geordi La Forge, Dean thinks, has nothing on me) and then stops short when Dean removes his glasses to rub wearily at his eyes. 

"What are you?" He breathes after a brief glimpse at the deep green. 

"What are you, Castiel?" Dean counters. 

It's been a long time, certainly, since their slumbering bodies fought each other for pillows and blankets. 

Castiel turns from him then. Dean puts his glasses back on and walks away. 

"Give Sammy my regards," he says without looking back. "Or not. Maybe don't tell him about me."

"Dean, please, wait-"

But the demon is gone.


End file.
